Michael collapsed to his hands and knees, heaving. His ten-year-old body trembled violently as he emptied the contents of his stomach beside the butcher's lifeless body.
The stench of decay and bile assaulted his nostrils, nearly overwhelming him.
Still reeling from the shock, the mental barrier protecting his inner palace quivered, showing cracks of vulnerability. Moments later, a searing pain ripped through him, jolting him back to awareness.
Staggering upright, Michael lunged for the door and burst out of the butcher's shop, gulping down the fresh air as if it were the only thing keeping him alive. He stood there, panting, trying to steady his breath and collect himself.
He was in shock—of that, he had no doubt.
This was the second time he'd seen a dead body up close, but this time it felt different. He knew this man, and while he hadn't been particularly close, the emotional weight of seeing him in this state caused his insides to churn.
And the more unstable his emotions became, the greater the pain in his mind.
My inner palace!
He turned his focus inward and saw smoke curling from the cracks in his mental barrier. It was shaking violently, barely holding together. Whatever had attacked him earlier was back—trying again to breach the barrier and reach his soul.
Michael's expression hardened. He dropped into a seated position and crossed his legs in the lotus stance.
Clearing his mind, he forced away all stray thoughts and channeled his will into shoring up the weakened defenses. He knew the agony of his soul being corrupted. He refused to endure it again.
He concentrated, weaving layers of mental resistance to weather the invisible storm battering his consciousness. Sweat formed along his brow as the pressure mounted.
But then—he noticed something strange.
The presence attacking him didn't feel conscious. There was no malice, no intent, as if it was operating out of pure instinct.
The realization clicked into place. It had struck when his mental defenses had crumbled under the shock of the corpse—nothing more than a creature reacting to weakness.
But now that he stood firm, the assault gradually faded, retreating like a tide.
Eventually, the attack ceased altogether.
Michael's eyes snapped open, and he exhaled sharply. The storm had passed. His thoughts were clear, and the tremors of panic had finally settled.
He slowly rose to his feet and examined himself, checking for injuries. Finding none, he allowed himself a moment of relief.
I need to leave this place as soon as I gather enough supplies, he thought, scanning the desolate street.
Crossing to the right side of the road, he approached a row of market stalls, most of which were still covered. He lifted the canvas on the first one—it was stocked with leather goods: knapsacks, gloves, boots.
Everything was neatly displayed, as if the owner had intended to open for business that morning.
What? Did the owner just… leave everything behind?
It didn't make sense. The quality was excellent—some pieces looked worth several gold coins.
A gnawing unease crept into Michael's chest.
He moved to the next stall and pulled back the cover. It, too, was fully stocked—just like the leather vendor and the produce stand he'd seen earlier.
Why would they leave all this behind? If they evacuated, surely they'd take at least something with them…
One by one, he checked the remaining stalls. Each was filled with merchandise, untouched. Only the jeweler's booth stood empty, which made sense—they would likely store their valuables at home after hours.
It was too organized, too complete, too sudden.
This couldn't be a coincidence.
Either they had no time to collect their belongings before leaving… or they never got the chance to leave at all, Michael thought bitterly, his mind drifting back to the lifeless butcher he'd found in the store.
Whatever had attacked him—it was entirely possible the townsfolk had fallen victim to the same thing. If it struck during sleep, when one's mental defenses were at their weakest, there'd be little chance to resist.
Part of him wanted to search for survivors.
But another part—the louder part—dreaded the idea of finding more bodies.
Some might call it selfish, but he was only ten years old. Despite the maturity he showed on the surface, inside he was still just a child. And what he wanted, more than anything, was to get as far away from Velmara City as possible.
So he did exactly that.
The wares had been abandoned—either out of necessity… or due to tragedy.
Michael returned to the leatherworker's stall and paused. He closed his eyes and muttered a few quiet words of respect for the man who'd once stood behind it. He had nothing to offer in trade, but that didn't mean he couldn't be grateful.
He picked out a pair of boots close to his size, a sturdy leather pouch, and a knapsack large enough to carry the supplies he'd soon gather. He had no intention of taking more than he needed—especially since he had no idea how far the next city was on foot.
One stall after another, Michael repeated the ritual. He thanked the absent owners softly and chose only practical items—some dried food, a water canteen, a few small tools. By the time he reached the end of the street, his pack was full with enough to last him a week, maybe more.
At the northern edge of the city, Michael came to a stop. His gaze drifted eastward, where the City Lord's mansion stood like a monument to a life he no longer claimed.
His former home.
The only fond memories he had of that cold place were of his mother. The rest—his father, the stiff-faced servants, their barely concealed disdain—meant nothing to him now.
Michael lingered for a few moments, then turned away without a second glance.
He didn't know what lay ahead, but one thing burned clear in his heart:
He would dedicate his new life to uncovering who had done this—to his mother, and to Velmara City.
But first, he thought, I need to become stronger.